The Worst of Evils
by tinypinkmouse
Summary: He was not meant to die in this world without hope. He was never meant to die at all. (Legolas/OMC. Non graphic mentions of torture. Dub-con.) (Revised version)


_I was aware that this fic had a lot of errors and mistakes, and I debated for some time the idea of just taking it down. However, since there are people who have enjoyed it regardless of its faults, I decided instead to revise it. At least some of the mistakes have been removed, a lot of the wording has been changed, but the plot itself has remained the same. (Even the author's notes have gone through some revision.)_

This is a crossover between Lord of the Rings and Forgotten Realms, but doesn't feature any characters from the Forgotten Realm's novels. The title is from a quote by Nietzsche: "Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man." Something that might be useful to keep in mind when reading the fic; according to Tolkien elves get married, basically, by having sex after which they're pretty much stuck together forever. The ceremony before is pretty much just to prettify the whole thing. So there's no adultery or anything, no divorces... things like that. Rape would obviously be a very bad thing for an elf, I mean it's always horrible, but the elf would be stuck with that person forever.

The time period that this takes place is not really significant for the story, but in case anyone wondered. Lord of the Rings; anytime after Sauron moved to Dol Guldur, but before Bilbo found the ring (so that's about 1050-2941 T.A.). For those who don't really care for the specifics, the important thing to know is it happens before that whole Fellowship of the Ring thing. And in Forgotten Realms... uh... that's even more ambiguous, but before the Time of Troubles (1358 DR) and anytime after the drow started founding their own cities in the Underdark (that's some time span, 6000 years or so).

* * *

It was not the torture in itself that ailed Legolas the most. Yet, the pain alone which was inflicted on him would have been enough, he believed, to break spirits far stronger than that of his own. He had heard tell of what had befallen those of his kin – far nobler in spirit than he – captured by the enemy. These creatures who held him captive were not the same enemy; they were not of the same darkness that – among so many other evils – had sprung forth the vile creatures that inhabited his own home wood.

His captors were a thing beyond his ken, unlike any creature he had ever heard of before, but he doubted not that there was darkness residing in their hearts. The taint of evil saturated this place he was held in, and if indeed he had need of some proof of the vileness of these creatures, he need not look any further than their treatment of him. These ones held knowledge of pain and torture far beyond that which Legolas had ever wished to imagine. It seemed to him that they sought to prolong his suffering, to keep him here in fear and pain for as long as they could, for no reason beyond the pleasure they took in his torment.

It was not however the pain of his body that left him utterly without hope. It was not even the smothering feel of evil and vileness that he could taste in the very air he breathed. All these things served to make his situation ever worse – they alone were enough to drive him beyond his wits and leave him a gibbering, senseless thing shivering on the floor – but the one thing that robbed him of all hope was not pain or suffering, it was not the utter darkness pressing in all around him, nor was it the evil hearts and deeds of his captors. What left him beyond all hope was his own mortality; the sense of ever approaching death.

He had felt the bonds of mortal life close around him in the instant of his arrival on this world. He had been pulled to this place against his will, and then in one sudden, violent moment felt the passage of time, the inevitability of his oncoming death. The sudden sense of his own mortality had overwhelmed all else, and what knowledge he might have otherwise gained upon his arrival in this strange, dark land had been lost to him.

Never before had he felt the constraints of time. Never before had he felt so clearly how each moment passed him by never to be regained. Each breath he took brought him closer to his end, every beat of his heart was one step closer to death, and in such a place like this, death never seemed very far away. He felt his own mortality, in a way an elf such as he was never meant to feel it, and it filled him with despair.

Legolas would never fathom how any of his kin could choose mortality – how anyone would choose to take on this horrible, lingering death, even if it was for the sake of love. Bound by time they would slowly, inexorably, cease to be. The feeling terrified him. Perhaps in his own world he could have borne such a feeling, but here in this strange world of mortals it was something utterly horrible. He did not know what would become of his soul, here, once his life was at an end. What was the pain of his body, the darkness all around him, compared to the eternal suffering of his soul?

In Arda, there would have been the comforting knowledge, not of what became of those mortals who passed beyond – such knowledge was for none save Eru – but that whatever became of mortal souls was not some untold horror. In this place, there was no such reassurance. Perhaps death would show itself to be worse than life.  
These creatures who had imprisoned him had told him of ways to trap souls at the moment of death, enslaving them for all eternity, and they had told him of ways to send a soul to an eternity of suffering and torment. There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that they had told him these things as another form of torture, but the knowledge of this did not lessen the reality of the threat, nor the ever mounting horror of mortality that loomed over him in its inevitability.

Death would come to him if he stayed in this world. There was no hope for him here. If by some strange means he did manage to escape his captors, he would still be in this world that doomed him. There was no escape for him as long as he stayed in this strange and dreadful world.

He had not seen much of this world he now found himself in, but he knew it was not his own, nor was it anything like his own. The creatures in this place were horrible; they had pulled him here by accident and captured him for sport. He had not known their language or what they were. They had used magic such as he had never before witnessed, to talk to him, for no other reason than the fact that they could tell him of horrors he could never have imagined before.

He had been told that he was far beneath the surface of the world and that there was no escape. He was not meant to live beneath the ground. An elf was meant for woods and open skies and this place had no such things. It held only darkness and pain.

So time, which he had no way of measuring, passed and he was without hope. Then of all things, _he_ appeared. To find someone who would stir his soul thusly, in such a place as this, seemed unimaginable, and yet, undoubtedly this one did. Not that this one seemed different from the others, he was as dark as the rest of his kin, both in heart and appearance. He had come to give Legolas food and water, as they did not wish their prisoner to die an untimely death. He had not said a word and Legolas had felt nothing but hate and contempt from the other.

He had come again and again. He had taken no action other than to bring Legolas some sparse food and water, enough to sustain him, no more. Then once – after the torture had brought Legolas to the brink of death once more, and he was curled in a corner in such agony that he could not even shed tears, terrified that his end was at hand, and that he would die alone in this hated place – he had come again, and something had changed.

He had forced Legolas to drink some foul potion that burned its way down his throat, but he had been too weakened for any protest to fall from his lips, and he had long ago lost any instinct to rebel against his captors. Soon the pain had diminished, still there, but lessened. Hunger and exhaustion still clawed at him – the terror and hopelessness never left him completely – but the ever present sense of his approaching death receded somewhat and Legolas knew that this would not be the day of his death.

Then he had spoken to Legolas in the language of his captors, which Legolas did not understand beyond a few scattered words; the commands they gave him for simple things. He had spoken words that sounded like questions, at the same time both angry and bewildered. He had made demands Legolas could not understand, could not answer, and as Legolas' silence stretched out the other had hit him in frustration and left.

In this place of darkness, Legolas could not measure the time that passed until his next visit in any other way than by the number of times they took him to inflict pain on him for their pleasure – and of that, he had soon lost count. It did not matter. Still more time passed however, and Legolas thought _he_ would not come again. Then, suddenly, he had stood there and looked at Legolas hanging in chains for the amusement of others. Had looked at him with red eyes glowing in the darkness. Watched him in silence for what seemed like an eternity, as time trickled past sluggishly, Legolas' overextended muscles screaming in agony.

Legolas had faded in and out of consciousness, no doubt caused by pain and fatigue. Then as suddenly as he had appeared, he had been gone again, without ever saying a word. Legolas wondered sometimes – when he was alone in his cell and had strength left to form such thoughts – if he had gone mad, with pain and hopelessness and grief. He knew such things could happen.

Even in his own world, where his immortality would not have been denied him, and he would not be forced to endure the passage of time in this way; such treatment as had been inflicted on him would be enough to drive an elf to madness. He had heard of such horrible fates that had befallen some of his kin at the hands of the servants of the shadow, but had never seen such a thing for himself. He did not feel mad – though he did not know what madness felt like – but to imagine that his soul could yearn for one of these creatures, this must be a thing of madness. Yet he could not deny what he felt.

The feeling itself was pure and wondrous, as he had always known it would be. It touched him to his very soul, and though he had not before felt thusly – and how could he have, as such a thing came but once, even in the limitless lifetime of an elf – he knew it for what it was, as all elves did. He should not have found this here. It should not have been a mortal creature such as this; elven kind – or what passed for such in this strange world – but dark in ways he could not fathom. Yet, there it was and would not be denied.

Perhaps it was the feeling of joy, unwilling as it was, buried deep in his heart – that even the despair and madness of this place could not completely extinguish – that made him hold on to what sanity he could. Surely, his soul could not yearn for a thing born of utter evil. Such feelings were made of light and happy things, of hope and joy, they were not of the dark, and though this place seemed nothing but dark, he could not believe that his soul could err in such a way. This feeling for such a dark creature must be what let a trickle of hope back into his heart.

Time went on, as inevitably as ever and though he could feel every moment pass him by he could not measure them. He came to be thankful for that, as such a thing no doubt would have made his own mortality even more unbearable. As hope had forced its way into his heart, Legolas came to make an effort to learn the language of his captors. He hoped perhaps to express himself to the one that had so stirred his soul or, at the very least, to know such words as was spoken by him sometimes, when he came. The endeavour did also serve the purpose of occupying him with something more than the never ending pain and terror. It was his fortune, if one could call it thus, that one of his tormentors found amusement in his willingness to learn their speech, and had taken it upon herself to instruct him in the midst of her torture. If he was slow to learn, she would inflict punishment, but then, she would do so regardless if he learnt or not. But learn he did.

The day came when he visited Legolas' cell again. Watched, and then spoke. "What have you done to me?" he said in angry and demanding tones. "Why do I want to come here to look upon you? What is the strange thing I feel when I watch them torture you? You are a surface elf, disgusting. And yet you make me feel such things," he said, in words Legolas struggled to understand and then he hissed out in fury. "What have you done?"

Legolas lifted his head, and looked upon the dark one in fear and hope, in the darkness where even his sharp elven eyes could make out no more than red eyes and faint outlines. "Nothing..." The word was a mere whisper, his throat too sore from his earlier screams to manage anything more.

The other seemed surprised at first, but his surprise soon turned into anger. "Do you take me for a fool? You understand our language, have you listened to me and..."

"No," interrupted Legolas in a hurried whisper, the strange language falling uncomfortably from his lips. "Learn... mistress," he managed to say. His comfort with the language still far from such that he would have been able to handle the intricacies of sentences of any length.

The other chuckled with malicious humour. "Ah, yes. She would," he said. "Now that you understand me though, tell me what you have done to me," he demanded quietly, and Legolas did not miss the threat in his voice.

"Nothing," Legolas spoke quietly.

Swift steps brought the other to him, and shortly he had Legolas pressed against the wall. Though Legolas' frame was taller and broader than his, the wood-elf could not in his condition do much to prevent such a thing from happening.

"Do not lie to me."

"I… nothing," Legolas could do nothing save repeat himself as he looked into eyes of brilliant red. The language still seemed strange to him, and there were still too many words he did not know.

The slighter elf pulled him away from the wall and slammed him against it again, so that Legolas' head bounced painfully off the stone. The slight frame would deceive one to believe that the other was far weaker than he was.

Legolas gasped with pain.

It took him a moment to regain some semblance of composure, enough so to attempt an answer. "Our…" he faltered as he struggled to find a word to fit the sentiment he wanted to convey. He had not yet learnt a word for soul; it did not seem a word he would ever learn here. "Hearts," he managed after a moment, "know each other."

He could not know for certain that he had chosen the right words to say that which he meant. That which he simply knew. It was difficult enough to put into words, but to do it in a language he did not know well at all seemed almost impossible.

"Surface elf foolishness," the other spat out and let Legolas drop to the floor. With quiet steps he was gone and Legolas was left alone once more.

The next time he came, he seemed to have calmed his nature somewhat, at the very least he did not seem angry. It was one of those times – far too frequent – when Legolas found the reality of mortal life far too close. In this place, wounds that would have healed in Arda could render him one step away from death. It was not a feeling he particularly enjoyed. He knew by then that the foul, burning liquid that was forced down his throat would help him and he accepted it with bitter gratitude.

"It would be more merciful to kill you," the other said quietly, where he kneeled next to Legolas' lying form on the floor.

Legolas could not stop the pitiful sound that escaped as he heard the words. He curled in on himself as if somehow that would offer him some protection.

"Are you so afraid of death that you prefer this to the release it would bring you?" It was not, Legolas thought, meant as a question. And in the language of this place, Legolas did not have the words to answer. "Did you truly mean what you said?" the other asked suddenly, his words laced with curiosity. There was naught but one thing to which he could be referring.

"Yes," Legolas whispered in answer, and uncurled slightly from his pitiful position. Every movement brought with it a dull, throbbing pain, but such things he had become used to here, and it was not so bad now as it had been mere moments ago. The foul potion had no doubt worked its magic on his ailing body.

"How strange." He did not seem to doubt Legolas' words, though that need imply nothing more than that he thought Legolas mad for believing in such an insane notion. "I am Duragh, First son and Weapons Master of this House. I am drow. I was born Second son." He stroked Legolas' tangled hair, as he spoke evenly. At the same time as he longed to lean into the touch and find what comfort he could in it, he wanted nothing more than to shrink back from it. He did not have the strength for either. "Does it hurt your elvish feelings if I tell you that there is only one way to gain station in our world?"

Legolas could feel himself shiver at those cold words, and tears were silently slipping down his cheeks. He wished for nothing more right then than to be back in his father's halls, were none of this would be real.

"Such _abbilen_ as you describe have no place here." The strange word was not one Legolas had heard before, but he could guess at a meaning for it. "You are a prisoner, a plaything that will sooner or later be sacrificed to Lollth. As long as you live, no one would care what I do to you." He let his hand run down Legolas' body in a way that left no doubt as to the meaning of his words. His hand came to a rest on Legolas' hip for a while. Then with no further words, he stood up and left.

Alone in his cell again Legolas curled up and cried bitterly, alone. It had been easier when all hope had been gone, then words had not been able to hurt him so.

After this it seemed to Legolas that Duragh came to see him fairly regularly. Sometimes he did not say a thing. At other times he would talk of things he had done, of his family and the constant intrigue and backstabbing that went on within it, and within their society as a whole. He would speak of things that seemed so incredibly horrible as if they were commonplace, and Legolas learned more than he wished of this place he was imprisoned in.

It was a comfort of sorts to have him there, to listen to his speech. It also made everything worse.

Then, without warning, everything changed.

Quietly, the doors to his cell opened and he could sense that it was Duragh that stepped inside. With quiet, hurried movements, he shoved several bottles of potions at Legolas. "Drink," he ordered in an urgent tone that brooked no argument.

As Legolas gulped down the foul potions, he soon felt some of the strength he had lost during his time here returning to him. As he could barely discern the movements in the darkness, he found no time to react as Duragh appeared to throw something at him. Whatever it was, it seemed to break and coldness spread over him.

"Here," Duragh told him, and gave him what seemed to be a cloak. He did not stop to question, as whatever was happening could not be worse than what he had been through so far. He put on the cloak as fast as he could, since the dark elf seemed to be urging swiftness. Soon he felt the comforting touch of a sword hilt in his hand. Duragh then grabbed him by the other hand and pulled Legolas with him out of the cell.

He did not know what was going on. He could see near nothing in the utter darkness, for even his keen eyesight needed some light, but he did – most of the time – at least discern enough not to walk into walls. Though movement was easier to notice than static things.

And there was movement, fighting to be exact. Legolas could not say what was going on, or where Duragh was leading him. They did not stop to fight and so far, no one seemed to have noticed them. They crept silently next to walls, in places filled with the sounds of battle, sprinted through quiet hallways, stopped in what seemed to Legolas had to be in plain sight and simply waited, before quietly going on. Legolas found himself grateful that even in the darkness – even after everything he had endured – he found himself moving with silence and grace.

It was long after the sounds of battle had faded that they finally came to a halt. Duragh laughed quietly, his amusement ringing dark and hollow in the space Legolas could not see.

"What… why…?" Legolas attempted to inquire, but he was not sure what he should ask.

"My House is gone," he told Legolas. "I had planned an escape should such a thing ever happen, and then I decided to risk it all to save you." He chuckled slightly. "I think you have driven me as mad as yourself."

Tired and half mad from uncounted torture, afraid of the dark elf next to him – that for some inexplicable reason seemed to be what his soul yearned for – Legolas pulled the laughing elf to himself and kissed him. What did it matter anymore, here in this horrible place of pain and mortality? He was free, but there was nowhere to go.

And there, in some dark tunnel on the cold stone floor somewhere, with death behind them, they made love.

* * *

_Generally speaking I've never been fond of OC's in major roles in fanfic (not that I don't appreciate a well done OC), I'm even less fond of OC pairings. And here I am with a Legolas/OC fic (never say never, I suppose). For the purposes of the story though, the drow could really be anyone and trying to think of a suitable character from any of the novels would have been rather difficult. So it was a choice between some random minor character or an OC and since it is an RPG setting it felt fitting to create an OC for the role._

_The male/male pairing doesn't need any justification, any more than any pairing does. But it did suit this story better, and while I did write it off as nothing to worry about within the story (neither of them ever seemed to give a second thought to the fact that the other was male) I don't think it's too far fetched for both races to be used to male pairings, at least to some extent. Drow society is predominantly matriarchal and females are encouraged to become priestesses, and so having the OC be female would have created a host of issues I didn't want to deal with in the fic. A male was just easier. Just like making him a fighter instead of a wizard was easier. Like this there seemed a bigger chance of them... connecting on some level at least. None of that really has a very big impact on this fic, but still it made more sense to have a male OC._

_I've never really sat down and thought about Legolas' character. It's not like we know that much about him. But personally I've always seen him as pretty much another wood-elf (not so much a prince, like some do), I've just always taken it for granted that his mother was a wood-elf (I know we're never told if that's true or not) and that he's half wood-elf, he acts like one at least. Also he's supposed to be young, by Tolkien elf standards anyway, and that's just how I've always considered him, a bit young and rash. Also while this hasn't much to do with anything, the Legolas in my mind has always had dark hair (being in my mind just half Sindar, he doesn't need to be blond and since he's always presented as a wood-elf I leapt to conclusions). It made a nice mental image when in contrast with the drow, sadly that's just completely useless in this story where it's all dark, all the time._

_There is no explanation about how we got here or what happens after, if Legolas is supposed to get back before that whole Ring business (he does, at least in my mind). But neither of those really matters for the story that's told. Actually I think they'd make the story less effective. I suppose I could write about what happens after this, but "Legolas and his husband's, the cardboard cut-out drow's, adventures in D&D land" just doesn't strike me as very interesting (and would require me to know a lot more about the Forgotten Realms than I do)._ _Frankly, it's been ages since I delved into either of the world's I'm using here. It's possible that I've made some factual errors. I keep forgetting things like; it's dark. He can't actually see anything, so describing what the drow look like would be stupid._

_Oh, and; 'abbilen', I think should be the plural of 'abbil', which should be drow for 'trusted friend' (you know according to some sources). Weirdly enough the drow have a word for it._


End file.
